


The Visitor in the Long Days

by Path



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-31
Updated: 2012-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-30 10:13:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Path/pseuds/Path
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Handmaid has so many hated tasks to fulfill, and it's only when she's locked away in the brightest hours of day that she can hope to have it all truly end. They are long hours, but she doesn't spend them alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Visitor in the Long Days

**Author's Note:**

> Whoops I think that Kink Meme prompter wanted something funny and cute

He comes to her sometimes in the long days.

While the sunlight bakes the surface and the Handmaid hides herself in her hive, she is visited. How he enters her secured rooms, she can’t tell, but the Handmaid is practical. This man, she suspects, will only get stronger the more her paranoia builds. If she locked her door, he would see her. If she barred the windows, he would be inside. If she encased herself in a mausoleum, airless and sealed, he would cling close to her and rest his head on her shoulder. 

But she cannot stop. Her skills are great but her fear is greater. They call her the Demoness now, for they know her, and soon the highbloods will muster their forces to destroy her. She will rise again; she is the tool of the Master and cannot be removed entirely. But when she shutters her windows and secludes herself in her deepest rooms against the cruel light of day, he comes to her and dallies there, as if he will take her away for good someday.

He won’t, she knows. When the highbloods’ power proves too great, she is returned not to his arms, but to her Master’s. But he comes to her before then, anticipating, waiting for the day when her bondage will be broken and he can take her from this. This is what she dreams in the awake hours of madness in her darkened rooms.

He is there, as he is always, staying in the darkest shadows. She can feel his presence, a sweet quiet presence like water beneath sun-drenched sands. He is a strange creature, this man, slim and ageless; not in the slow aging of the highbloods but as if he is all ages at once, grub to elder and aware of it all. Or somehow, none of the ages at all. Perhaps he was never a child, never an adult, never any of these things, but it doesn’t stop him from knowing them. He knows all things, she thinks. He knows her so well.

She knows it because he appears to her, even as he appears now, in those lightless times of most doubt. The times she paces her rooms and denies herself recuperation, in the hopes that it will just end all the sooner should she be at less than her best. It is a tendency she learned from her guardian. And even then, she remembered him. He came to that mansion, too, stepped out of the shadows of her closet to stroke her hair in its ornate exotic twist and to lull her to sleep with the promise of someday, escaping.

Once she followed him a little ways, but he only stepped into the parlor. Her guardian offered him tea, and the tall man accepted. She went back to her room. Now, she knows, the tall man wrapped in darkness was visiting her “uncle”, too, as he visited all immortal creatures. She wonders if he has been denied much, with her Master’s creations; few things she can think of could deny this man before.

There is a touch on her face, gentle cool bone against her skin. She closes her eyes, long lashes brushing her cheeks. The faint sound of his weapon coming to rest on the floor nearby, and then a second touch, brushing his fleshless fingers across her shoulders. He cannot feel the weight and heft of the thick brocade, and she is glad of it. It’s a pleasure she never wished to have.

He helps her out of it. Her fingers loose the buttons, but his hands smooth along her skin as she slips the shoulders down. If a man died in the desert day, parched and burned, and was left for years, and then the stripped remains were pulled into her deepest sanctum and left to rest in the night, his hands would be this man’s hands- cool and dry and weightless.

She leans against him, her head bowing. The Master has to force her to obey. He has to bend her knee for her and wrench her gaze to the floor, but this man, this silent sweet man, evokes a similar sweet demeanor in her. Her happiness is bittersweet, but for a little while, at least, she can close her eyes to her tasks and pretend that someday, she will have this forever.

His hands lie on hers, and move them. They are of similar length, and his bones lie over hers with only the fragile warm layer of skin and muscle between. He pulls her hands to her hair, and together they remove every ornament, unwrap the ties, and place them aside. Her hair is well past her waist when unbound, and he reaches for a brush to smooth out the kinks the complicated style requires. When he is finally satisfied, she can feel his hands running through it. The sensation will be lost to him, she thinks, but when she stirs herself to look back, she can see him placing his cheek to the long silk locks and savouring that. She does not understand why his hands should be fleshless and his face not. She would have imagined the other way around, a skull atop a functioning body, but to her, at least, his skull has only ever appeared painted on. It distorts the shape of his face, the hard white-on-black, and she cannot tell what he looks like, so perhaps it and a skull of bone are not so dissimilar.

He looks very small there, like a flying night rat or some other delicate-winged creature. She is surprised as ever when her heart stirs, the pulse quickening. She would have thought the ability to care would have been stripped from her long ago, but it reappears in these moments, in the times when he visits. She is struck, regarding him, and it takes her a moment, heart in her throat, before she can do what she’d wanted to. Her hands extend to his, she pulls him to her, and their lips meet. 

Time, her old enemy, seems to suspend. His lips are thin and cool, and whatever forms the skull on his face and the shadows surrounding it, it is not paint, because it doesn’t come off or leave a taste on her tongue when she swirls it against his bottom lip. A tattoo, perhaps, or maybe it’s just the way his face is naturally. She can’t wonder about it now, because his hands are moving on her, clasping her face, trailing down her neck, tucking hair behind her ears. At one point there is a faint clack as his fingers wrap around her horns, and she closes her eyes at the foreign sensation of cool bone rubbing their length.

He has no horns that she can see, but his body proves strangely elusive to her on all counts. She cannot tell if his arms are also bone or if that strange flesh-stripped look ends at his hands; she cannot feel if it is a chest or a ribcage beneath his robe. It is not clothing as she would really define it, and she thinks suddenly that the robe is as much a part of his body as his face or hands are. And besides, his hands have slid down to her breasts, so such curiosities can always wait.

He dips his head to play one nipple between his lips. She cannot feel his teeth or tongue, though she wants to, but since she’s not entirely certain he has either she can’t exactly ask for it. His fingers rub over her other breast; he cups it and presses his thumb to the bud there. Her hips are beginning to rock slightly in anticipation, feeling his cool kisses down her stomach and the scrape of his fingers like fingernails drawn down her sides.

He applies them to her legs next, tracing patterns on her thighs and raking them up to almost, almost touch her where she is hungry and wet and wanting. Sometimes he kisses the soft flesh and rests his cheek against her leg there, but mostly it is his fingers that are driving her from her senses.

If only, she thinks, she can keep him for longer. If only night will hold off. She has so many things to do, but they have to wait for night to come...

Her yearnings are cut short by the cautious pressure of his fingers against the wetness of her entrance and continuing to slide up to twist against the tiny tendril curled there. A moan shivers out of her as his slick light fingers rub her, stroke her, and finally, dip into her. His fingers are so thin he can fit several in, but the shape is not quite that of normal fingers. There are bumps along them, naturally, and she forms to the shape of the bones and gasps when he starts to remove them again. His lips caress that aching curled tendril above her entrance, and she still doesn’t know if he has a tongue but just the feeling of him pressing his lips around it and rolling it is enough. His free hand is stroking shivering lines over her stomach, and she is already feeling the pull of need beginning to drag gasps and moans from her.

She doesn’t beg him or whisper endearments. It’s already too much that her irregular breathing has broken the emptiness. She comes silently, arching her back and hips, her mouth open but no words escaping, as his fingers scissor in and out and his mouth pulls at her. She makes no sound, and the Master doesn’t hear her ecstasy.

She doesn’t even make it to the recuperacoon today. She lies across the floor where they’ve ended, and his indescribable concealed body forms to hers. His arms might be bone or flesh or nothing but congealed shadows, but they wrap around her and hold her close. His face might be tattooed or magic or natural, but it buries into her hair. She cannot feel him breath, but his lips press into the base of her neck.

He will be gone in the dusk, when she must open her doors and bring her Master’s will down on the world. But for now he is here, and will wait a little while with her. And the Handmaid thinks, _soon_.


End file.
